


sheen of the noonsun striking

by NotionalNadir



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24465226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotionalNadir/pseuds/NotionalNadir
Summary: Peace is coming to the great land of Fódlan. An unprecedented treaty between the three nations is being heralded by a social season attended by socialites throughout the continent.Recently elevated to nobility, Dorothea Arnault plans to use this rare opportunity to secure her future by finding a suitable partner. Ingrid plans to eat free food and hit balls from the back of a horse with her friends. It's an unexpected reunion, five years in the making.orModern AU poloplayer!Ingrid and debutante!Dorothea having the summer romance they deserve.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	sheen of the noonsun striking

**Author's Note:**

> My single belated offering for Dorogrid Week 2020. I implore you to treat it kindly.
> 
> Also, please feast your eyes on this [beautiful commissioned art piece](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1xs7QOhgy-CznRyRzhWT3FsFm6PL7lpVX/view?usp=sharing) by [Shihoran](https://shihoran.tumblr.com/); they did an absolutely amazing job!

_Sheen of the noonsun striking_

_Took my heart as if_

_It were a green-tipped leaf_

_Kindled by my love’s pleasing_

_Into an ardent blazing._

_Sylvia Plath. Song for a Summer’s Day._

* * *

The wind whipped violently past Ingrid’s ears as she galloped downfield behind Sylvain, where he was dribbling the ball.

“Tail!” she called, and the resounding _whup_ of his mallet making contact was gratifying to hear.

It was a fast and clean shot that she received easily. Already, Sylvain was turning away from the line for a different angle and she sent the ball back up to him. They passed the ball back and forth, calling out shots between each other until a whistle pierced the air.

Sylvain approached her at a slow trot on his chestnut gelding, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Felt good, yeah?” he asked breathlessly, holding out a closed fist to her.

Ingrid let her mallet fall to rest against her shoulder and obliged, bumping her fist to his. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Felt pretty good.”

Off to the side now, as Dimitri and Dedue took to the field, Ingrid leaned forward and patted Lúin on the neck. “Take a rest, girl,” she murmured as the white horse flicked her ears. “You were great out there.”

She watched as the two performed the same drill, shading her eyes from the blinding sun with a hand at times. At speed, neither rode as fast as she or Sylvain, but they had devastatingly powerful hits on the ball.

“Dedue’s gotten a lot better at riding just these past—Sylvain?” Ingrid realized with a start that while she had been observing her other teammates, her friend had wandered away.

Sylvain was lingering close to the edge of the field, winking and waving at the spectators with all the charm he could muster. Ingrid caught sight of at least a few young women among the crowd he was working that seemed all too eager to fall over themselves at his attention. She allowed him his vices for the duration of Dimitri and Dedue’s drill but not a second longer.

At the whistle, Ingrid was dragging Sylvain away back to the middle of the field where the four of them grouped loosely together on their horses.

“Looked good out there, you two!” Sylvain said cheerily.

“How would you know if you weren’t watching?” Ingrid asked with a roll of her eyes that was backed by Lúin’s snort.

“What do you think, Ingrid?” Dimitri sat tall and proud upon his jet-black horse, the very picture of a prince. “Shall we call it a day?”

“We’ve been practicing since morning and I think we’ve done well,” she agreed. “But it’s up to you, Your Highness.”

Dimitri shook his head with a chuckle. “Come now, Ingrid. How many times must I tell you? No need for formalities, especially on the field. Call me by my name.”

“Maybe when Dedue does,” Ingrid demurred, sharing a small smile with the stern man.

“Good luck with that,” Sylvain scoffed. “But hey, maybe one riding drill all together before we’re done? We’re in uniform and everything and it’ll look impressive for the audience, eh? Don’t give me that look, Ingrid. I know you love riding drills.”

“Fine, then,” she acquiesced, scratching Lúin’s roached mane with a hand.

“Dedue?” Dimitri asked with a lift of his brow.

“No objections, Your Highness.”

At Dimitri’s nod, Sylvain whooped. “Alright, we’ll follow your lead, Ingrid. Make it good.”

They fanned out away from her and Ingrid breathed deep, considering the pitch. There were already small clods of dirt torn up by the horses’ hooves that would have to be stomped back down later. With a small nudge of her knees and a flick of the reins, Lúin moved into position effortlessly, eager and strong beneath her.

“What do you think, girl?” she murmured. “Figure of eights or spirals?”

Mind made up, Ingrid gave herself a moment more to feel her position in the saddle and find the perfect balance point. Sylvain was right, though it wasn’t just the drills that she loved. It was riding itself. The horses, the speed, the freedom—

Lúin shot forth at her command, a beautiful combination of power and precision in a blur of white.

They thundered across the field.

* * *

The breeze was gentle against her skin and Dorothea happily turned her face into it, letting the wind ruffle her hair. It was an awfully nice day, cloudless and bright, and Dorothea considered how lovely it would be to take a long meandering walk around the area with the sounds of horses and people at a distance melding together into soothing gentle white noise. It would be perfect—if it weren’t for the buzzing of a bee in her ear.

“What do you think of Gronder Field, Dorothea?” Ferdinand von Aegir gestured wide with his arms, looking absurdly proud for bringing her to such a place. It was as if he considered the rows of seats, the furiously galloping players, and the wide expanse of nature as his own doing—a beautiful backdrop engineered by his own artistic touch. “Magnificent, is it not?”

“Mm,” Dorothea hummed noncommittedly. “Very open. Very green.”

“Naturally, as the field for the upcoming Armistice Cup, it would be impeccably cared for,” Ferdinand nodded, hurrying after Dorothea as she stepped down through the covered stands, letting her hand trail against the sun-warmed bannister along the side.

“Gronder Field itself is much larger than what you see here, stretching quite a distance to the southeast. It’s steeped in history and this polo field shares in its name and legacy.”

He continued with the history lesson, invoking names of battles of yore and the heroes that had perished and triumphed on the field. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, so Dorothea humored him, observing his perfectly plucked eyebrows for as long as she could and sparing him a cursory smile now and again.

Ferdinand, it turned out, was inexhaustible in his enthusiasm for Adrestian history. He gestured with his hands as he spoke and paced to and fro in the empty stands, an inspired orator. Dorothea rearranged the blandly interested expression on her face and reminded herself that he was still the lesser of the two evils she had been confronted with that morning.

Despite her most valiant efforts, Dorothea’s attention finally waned as he recited the participants of the fifth battle he was retelling, and she took to watching the field instead. She was surprised when he noticed and hastily changed topics.

“That, I believe, is Prince Dimitri’s team practicing for their first match. Have you ever watched a polo game, Dorothea?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Dorothea drifted down to lean against the railing, peering at the rapidly moving figures on horseback, all clad in blue tops and white bottoms with black helmets that glinted in the sun, their long mallets blurring as they swung.

“Polo,” Ferdinand pronounced, “is the sport of kings.”

He cleared his throat as Dorothea blinked at him. “Allow me to explain the basics! The game is divided into periods called chukkas, each seven minutes long. The numbers on their jerseys, from one to four, indicate the position of the player on the team…”

As Ferdinand continued to enjoy the sound of his own voice, Dorothea went back to observing the action on the field. One of them was noticeably slighter in build, and it was as Dorothea watched the player guide a white horse through an intricate looping maneuver expertly that she realized.

“There’s a girl on the team?”

“Ah,” Ferdinand seemed a little taken aback by the sudden interruption but recovered quickly. “Ah yes, it was a bit of a surprise to everyone when the roster was announced! I believe she’s played with him before while at university, though. Ingrid Galatea.”

If Dorothea’s body hadn’t been angled away from Ferdinand, he would have seen the blatant shock that ripped across her face at the name.

“Ingrid… Galatea…?” she whispered.

“She’s playing as number two. Number one is their mutual childhood friend Sylvain Gautier…”

Everything faded to background noise. That small figure, far below her—Ingrid, that was _Ingrid_ —took off her helmet and started walking off the field, horse in tow, practice apparently concluded. Dorothea could do nothing but stare blindly at that blonde head far below her. She was too far away to make out the details of her face, but oh, how easily Dorothea could recall Ingrid’s eyes. It seemed like it had been an age since she’d thought of Ingrid, but at the same time it was also as if she’d never left Dorothea’s mind.

Dorothea wrenched herself away with a sharp inhale, releasing her white knuckled grip on the railing. Excitement and trepidation churned within her and she masked it all under a polite smile aimed at her talkative companion.

“Do excuse me, Ferdie,” she said. “I must be going.”

“Uh—but wait!” he faltered. His arm, half-raised in gesticulation to articulate a point she hadn’t been listening to, seemed to wilt. “Shouldn’t we head back together?”

“No need!” Dorothea chirped, already moving away, “I have matters to attend to—girl things, you know—for which your assistance is assuredly unnecessary. Feel free to return without me!”

She waggled her fingers dismissively at him as he scratched his head. She had barely left him behind when her phone buzzed. Dorothea glanced at the screen, made a face when she read the sender’s name, and threw it back inside her clutch carelessly.

Five years. She’d waited five years for this chance. No man—not Ferdinand von Aegir, not her father, not this large imposing security guard she was approaching—was going to stop her now.

* * *

“Why are you here, Sylvain?”

Ingrid had just about finished checking on all her ponies and was brushing down Lúin when her friend had decided to insert himself into the stables. Sylvain was draped over the door to the large stall she was in, arms hanging down, fingers tapping against the wood, being generally unhelpful.

“You know that we have the most extensive stabling service, right? Like, you don’t need to do all this yourself.”

“I know that,” Ingrid said, not looking up from her brushing. “I like doing it. It’s soothing and I like the ponies.”

“They’re probably living it up here better than we are at the hotel.”

“And they deserve it. Don’t you, Lúin?” Ingrid rubbed the horse’s neck vigorously and followed it up with some nice pats. “Don’t you? You work so hard. Now let me see your hooves.”

Lúin obediently let Ingrid bend her knee so she could get to work with the hoof pick. As Ingrid hummed softly to herself and flicked away small rocks and debris from the third hoof, Sylvain finally answered her original question.

“I invited some girls to come see the ponies.” He adopted a sagacious air, nodding to agree with himself. “Girls love horses, you know. It’ll impress them.”

“Good for you.” She didn’t bother to roll her eyes because he couldn’t see it with the way she was bent over and holding a horse leg. Surely Lúin was rightfully offended at being used as a pickup tool and was glaring at him in her stead.

“And I kinda need you to leave—when you’re done,” Sylvain continued. “I can’t have you here cramping my style.”

“What style?” Ingrid scoffed, patting Lúin on the shoulder and giving her a treat for her good behavior.

She was genuinely curious about his response, but a stable hand poked his head in through the doors at that moment.

“Mister Gautier? You said earlier you may be expecting someone—there’s a young lady requesting to enter the stables, is she—?”

“Oh yes, yes!” Sylvain said, standing straight and starting to self-groom. “Send her in.”

“I’m leaving,” Ingrid sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his shirt into that casually disheveled look. “But the ponies need rest, so you’d better behave yourself. I won’t forgive you if you traumatize them.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Sylvain declared, slapping an open hand to his chest. “I will keep everything strictly PG. Maybe PG-13.”

Ingrid shook her head and walked off with a backwards wave to her friend. Dimitri had mentioned that the monastery would have appetizers, though she was running a bit behind on time. Their hotel was merely a stone’s throw from Gronder Field and the stables, but making it to the monastery proper was at least a fifteen-minute walk. Sylvain surely wouldn’t make it back in time, not that he would care much because he had his priorities wrong. Struck with a sudden curiosity about the girl that would cause Sylvain to miss out on free food, Ingrid chanced a look back to see if she could catch a glimpse. It was likely she would have to meet her later to make amends when it blew up. The distance was too great, and Ingrid could only make out long dark hair and a pale dress. Deciding she’d no doubt hear about it later in excruciating detail whether she wanted to or not, Ingrid put it out of her mind and quickened her steps.

Her quest was interrupted in the entrance hall of the monastery in the form of Rodrigue Fraldarius, impeccably dressed as always in linen slacks and matching waistcoat.

“Oh, Ingrid! I’m glad I caught you.” His well-shined shoes clicked against the stone as he approached her.

“Hello, sir.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the practice this morning. Security briefings for the Prince’s stay ran long, I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

“Practice went well, I take it? How’s the team feeling?”

“Good. I think things are going well.” Rodrigue had become a mentor figure and an informal coach for the team ever since it had been decided the four of them would be playing in the cup a few months ago. Ingrid dutifully reported her findings to him, “Gronder Field is one of the nicest fields I’ve played on—the footing feels good. The ponies are settled in nicely. We’re planning on just a few light practices in the next few days so we’re all well-rested before the first match.”

“Good, good,” Rodrigue stroked his beard and considered Ingrid thoughtfully. “Polo isn’t a gambling sport, of course, but Lonato, Gwendal, and I have a bit of a friendly competition going on regardless. I’ve taken a look at the matchups, and you know… I think we might actually have a decent shot at this.”

“We’ll certainly try our best,” Ingrid promised.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. Now listen,” he continued, “something’s come up for tomorrow and I won’t be able to make it to the station. I’d really appreciate it if you could go in my stead.”

Ingrid paused. “The train station? To pick up Felix?”

“Yes, here.” He pulled out his phone. “Let me forward the details to you.”

She watched him fiddle on the device as he kept talking. “I’d ask Sylvain, but we all know you’re the responsible one in the group,” Rodrigue chuckled. “There you go, I just sent you the itinerary.”

“I think he’d like to see you, sir.”

Rodrigue shook his head with a chuckle. “Aren’t all children embarrassed by their parents at this age? I’m sure he’d prefer having his friends pick him up. Thank you for letting me entrust this to you.”

There wasn’t much room for protest, it seemed, as he gave her a hearty clap on the shoulder. Ingrid tried her best not to grimace. “I’ll make sure one of us lets you know that we’ve made it there and back safely.”

“So responsible. Such a shame I couldn’t convince you to join Aegis Security along with Felix. Anyway, I’ll be off now.”

Ingrid watched him walk away with a small sigh. Shaking her head quickly, she turned and trotted up the stairs two at a time, moving with purpose toward the dining area.

* * *

She was nearly there, stepping over a cat napping in a sunbeam, hand outstretched towards the door handle when—

“Ingrid?” the call was soft, uncertain. The cadence of her name upon that voice seemed familiar. It plucked at a distant memory, but Ingrid’s mind was elsewhere.

Through the windows of the dining hall, she could see a few scattered platters of food, though the motions of the caterers seemed to suggest the event was winding down. Absently, Ingrid turned around, oblivious to what awaited her.

“Dorothea,” she exhaled breathlessly.

A few steps away, Dorothea stood with her hands clasped in front of her.

“Oh, you remember me.” She sounded genuinely happy even while her eyes and body language seemed tentative.

“Yes,” Ingrid replied stupidly. Her hand dropped limply to her side.

Dorothea made a half-aborted movement, as if she meant to move closer for a hug or handshake before thinking better of it. Her bright eyes darted around Ingrid’s figure instead, measuring her up while Ingrid could do nothing but stare rudely.

If Dorothea had been pretty as a teenager, she was absolutely stunning now as a woman. The kind of woman that could bring full rooms to a hush upon entering. Ingrid very acutely remembered that she herself stunk of sweat and horse, not to mention her shirt had come sloppily untucked when she was tending to Lúin’s hooves earlier.

“Your new hairstyle is lovely,” Dorothea said as Ingrid blinked at her. “It suits you.”

“Yours too,” Ingrid replied quickly, before realizing that it didn’t seem like Dorothea’s hair had changed much over the past five years. Dorothea spared her a small smile regardless.

“What are y—”

“So how have—”

They both started at the same time, before falling quiet.

“You first,” Ingrid offered.

“How have you been, Ingrid?”

“I’ve been well.” It was hard to keep looking at Dorothea, like staring too long at the sun. Ingrid stepped to the side to avoid being hit by the door as a couple exited the dining hall. A quick glance inside revealed that the crew was placing covers atop silver platters and cleaning up plates. It no longer seemed important, though.

“Good. That’s good.” By the time Ingrid turned back to face her, Dorothea had moved quite a bit closer.

“I saw you on the polo field earlier.” Dorothea was spinning a pretty silver bangle around her wrist, catching and sending the sunlight scattering across the walkway to the great interest of the cat at their feet. “I didn’t know you played.”

Ingrid found herself nodding dumbly.

“You’re taking part in the tournament, I heard?”

“Yes.”

Dorothea considered this quietly, and really, she should have been commended on her ability to hold a conversation with a stone.

“Sorry,” Ingrid blurted when the silence grew long and expectant. Dorothea’s twirling stilled at her outburst. “I just… didn’t expect to see you here,” she admitted.

Dorothea’s face flickered through multiple emotions, too quickly for Ingrid to identify. She had only a moment to wonder if she had said something wrong before Dorothea took a short sharp breath and pulled her shoulders straighter.

“Listen, Ingrid. I wanted—”

With a flash of red hair, Sylvain came loping around the corner, nearly stepping on the basking cat. “Ingrid! Ingrid, I just met a _smoking hot_ girl at the stables and—oh!”

Drawing up next to Ingrid, Sylvain cleared his throat and stood straighter, ruffling his hair in a decidedly nonchalant manner that Ingrid was too familiar with. Unimpressed and upset, the cat gave a sullen _mraiow_ before slinking away. Ingrid wished dearly to follow.

“Hello again. Fancy seeing you here.” His smirk had Dorothea’s eyebrow twitching.

“It’s you. Again.”

“You’ve met,” Ingrid realized in dawning horror.

Dorothea pursed her lips. “Briefly.”

Sylvain surveyed the scene before him, taking in their proximity and the way Ingrid was widening her eyes in warning at him.

“Oh,” he realized happily. “You know each other!”

He threw his arm around Ingrid’s shoulder and leaned his weight against her. “Well, introduce me! Ingrid never introduces me to her hot friends. She’s terrible like that.”

“This is Dorothea Arnault,” Ingrid said faintly, unsure of what to do. “Dorothea, this is Sylvain Gautier.”

“Ah, finally a lovely name for the lovely lady,” Sylvain espoused. “Well, let it be known that any friend of Ingrid is undoubtedly a friend of mine.”

Dorothea frowned, Sylvain beamed, and Ingrid considered pivoting and slamming her fist into Sylvain’s solar plexus. He was saved by the timely vibrating that came from Dorothea’s purse. Ingrid took the distraction to shove Sylvain’s arm off her. At his raised eyebrows, she gave him her best _you’d better behave or else_ look.

Ignoring Sylvain completely, Dorothea addressed her directly. “I’m really sorry to cut this short, Ingrid. I really do have to take this—” the phone gave another forceful buzz and Dorothea gave her a small helpless smile.

“Sure. Of course, no problem.” Ingrid tried to keep her tone light and expression neutral even as Sylvain was nudging her foot with his.

“We’ll talk another time, alright?”

Ingrid trapped Sylvain’s foot under hers and heard him suck a breath in through his teeth as she brought down her full weight on it.

“It was nice seeing you again, Dorothea,” she added quietly, somewhat lamely.

Already half-turned away with her phone pressed to her ear, Dorothea paused for a beat, glancing at her from the corner of an eye, before she was distracted by her caller. A moment later, and she was striding away, Ingrid staring after her.

* * *

“Wow,” Sylvain sounded impressed as he whistled long and low under his breath. “Is this a train station or an art museum?”

“Both,” Ingrid said. “Is this honestly your first time here?”

Sylvain shrugged as he spun in place, taking in the vaulted ceilings and sprawling murals. “Not my fault that my father prefers the valet over public transportation.”

“The itinerary here says the arrival gate should be in the Main Concourse.” Ingrid tucked her cellphone into her back pocket and realized her companion was gone.

“Whoa! Is that the fresco of the War of Heroes? I’ve only seen pictures of it in books or online…” Sylvain’s voice came from a distance and it took a moment for her to pinpoint where he’d wandered to the opposite wall.

“I’m leaving you behind, Sylvain,” Ingrid called. “You can stare at the art later, after we know where to pick up Felix.”

Sylvain caught up to her in an easy lope as she exited the lobby into the center of the station. The sunlight streamed in from the large lofty windows and Ingrid raised a hand to shade her eyes as she peered around.

“You’re the one that invited me along,” Sylvain pointed out.

“Of course I did, it’s Felix.”

“Yeah, and you’re his favorite.”

“Felix loves us all equally through his emotional constipation,” Ingrid answered absently, moving off again once she’d caught sight of the sign. “Did you text him that we’d be here?”

“Yeah. He left me on ‘read,’ as usual.”

“Alright, there it is,” Ingrid gestured with a nod to where she saw the arrivals board.

“Soo _ooo_ ,” Sylvain said, drawing out the single syllable just long enough for it to be annoying. “Should we talk about yesterday?”

“Sure.”

“What? Really?”

“Your hitting position is excellent, but when otherwise riding, you balance too much on the reins and your heels creep up.”

“…Is that really all you have to say? Hey, why are you powerwalking suddenly? We’re early and these things probably never arrive on time anyway.”

“Sometimes your offside back shots are sloppy when you don’t follow through.” It was annoying how easily Sylvain kept pace with his long strides. Even more annoying was when he crossed his arms behind his head and stepped in front of her as she was trying to peer at the board.

“You’re blocking my view, idiot.”

“You know I’m not talking about practice,” he needled.

“Use your height and check that Felix’s train is on that board,” Ingrid instructed, adding a stern frown when it seemed like Sylvain was going to ignore her to continue the conversation instead.

With a gusty sigh, Sylvain spun in place to blink once at the board and then back around. “Yep,” he confirmed, popping the ‘p’ and followed Ingrid as she went to stand by a pillar.

“So, what’s the story?” He was relentless. “How do you know her? You just ran off yesterday after she left.”

“I am not setting you up with her,” she scoffed.

“That’s not what I’m asking!” Sylvain sounded aghast. “I know I’m a no-good philanderer with dastardly good looks, but even I obey the time-honored code of ‘Bros before—’”

“ _Don’t_ you dare finish that,” Ingrid gritted out. “I restrained myself from hitting you yesterday but I’m feeling less charitable today.”

Sylvain considered this for a moment, then decided he shouldn’t test her.

“You know, there’s a fresco of the Battle of Tailtean Plains over there,” Ingrid rewarded his silence by pointing down a hall to a different terminal. “If you wanted to see it.”

He hummed thoughtfully but stayed at her side. He had found something else to fixate on.

“Sylvain, you had better be ogling the pegasus statue and not that girl.”

“What can I say?” he winked across the way—certainly not for the sake of the rearing marble statue. “The female form is itself a work of art.”

Sylvain’s grin was devilish and undeterred, and Ingrid had no choice but to slap her hand over her face and groan.

“Speaking of females,” he continued with absolutely no subtlety. “I’d rather talk about one in particular: Dorothea Arnault.”

He pronounced the syllables of her name carefully and apparently the idiot was willing to push his luck today. “Oh man, I really need to know. You twitched when I said her name.”

“I did not.”

“Sure, you did.”

“Sylvain.”

“Yes.”

She capitulated. “We were at that summer camp together.”

“Summer camp?” Sylvain pondered. “The girls only summer camp you went to without us? The summer camp you came back from and then promptly cut off all your hair? _That_ summer camp?”

“Yes, Sylvain. That summer camp. We were friends. Annette and Mercedes were there and knew her too.” She hoped he would be appeased with that information and finally stop asking questions.

Ingrid watched his hands carefully, wondering if he was about to whip out his phone to text the other two girls. Not that it would have mattered. Even if they knew anything—which they didn’t—Ingrid felt relatively assured they wouldn’t betray her to Sylvain. Rather than sending off any messages, though, Sylvain seemed to be mulling over this nugget of information with great care, tapping a finger against his chin before he nodded decisively to himself, as if he had come to a satisfactory conclusion. Then proceeded to try to catch the eye of a girl wheeling a large suitcase past them.

Ingrid shook her head quietly to herself and leaned against the pillar. The girl ignored Sylvain. Both Ingrid and Sylvain watched her as she became a small speck among the moving masses of people.

“Hey, I never told you this,” Sylvain started with forced casualness, looking anywhere but at Ingrid. “But your father called me that summer.”

“About what?” Ingrid asked, deliberately relaxing her shoulders.

“He… uhh. He was kinda distraught when he called,” he cleared his throat. “He wanted to know… if, uh… if you’d really given up on men. And… if there was any chance you could be convinced to… date one of… us.”

Surely that was the abridged version. Ingrid swallowed once. Hard. “And what did you say?”

“Well, I…” he trailed off. He couldn’t look at her, but Ingrid’s eyes bored into the side of his skull. Sylvain scrubbed a hand across the back of his head. It wasn’t his usual lackadaisical ruffle or suave tousle. “I told him he should listen to what you were willing to tell him and not force you to do anything you didn’t want to. He kinda just… hung up after that.”

With a start, Ingrid found she was standing ramrod straight and with jaw clenched as she stared unseeingly at her friend. She was in the process of forcing her white knuckled fist to relax when Sylvain spoke again.

“Did I—I don’t know.” He tugged at his hair in frustration. “I hope I didn’t make things worse for you.”

“It’s fine,” Ingrid said thickly, pressing her spine against cool stone. She breathed and unlocked her jaw. “He never brought it up with me. I was probably already at Felix’s when he called you. It’s fine.”

“Is it really, though?” he asked beseechingly, glancing at her from the corner of an eye.

“He was just shocked. And confused.” She waved as dismissively as she could, her hand flopping rather unconvincingly at the wrist. “It’s fine,” she insisted once more, for good measure.

“You know it doesn’t matter to us, right?” Sylvain asked, finally turning to face her. “That you like girls,” he continued simply.

They had all known for a long time now, and Ingrid knew that. But they never spoke of it. It had seemed unimportant and inconsequential in the face of everything else happening.

“Even Felix with… you know,” he took a deep fortifying breath, “with Glenn… and stuff. He doesn’t care.”

And now, in the middle of a train station, Sylvain suddenly wanted to say everything. She didn’t know if she hated or loved him for it.

He shook himself and seemed to gather the rest of his courage. “We’re here to support you, Ingrid. Always.”

She looked at his smile and breathed deep, letting the moment sink into her skin, into her soul. Where it could live forever as an untarnished memory to give her strength.

“Alright,” she whispered on an exhale, letting herself settle. Then louder, “Thanks, Sylvain.”

He raised a fist and an eyebrow, not lowering either until she reached out to bop their knuckles together gently.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, frowning. “Move over. No wait, let’s switch spots.”

“What? Why?” Ingrid’s head was already swiveling even as she spoke, looking for unwanted cameras.

Whereas the Galateas were generally unknown and uninteresting, her friends were not so lucky. The paparazzi preferred to torment Dimitri, but when the news cycle was tired of the prince, it often decided to focus on his other childhood friends. But there was nothing of the sort that Ingrid could find, the bustling thoroughfare continuing around them, no one paying any heed to them.

Except, well…

“That cute brunette across the way is finally looking back at me, and you’re blocking my good side.”

* * *

The bookshop was old and dusty, smelled distinctly of yellowing parchment and fading ink, and with one foot inside the door, Ingrid loved it already.

The owner greeted her with a kind smile at the sound of the tinkling doorbell, and then bent his balding head back over the newspaper on his lap. Felix followed her inside, looking unimpressed, his default expression that Ingrid was too used to ignoring.

He followed her down two aisles, hands tucked into his pockets, glancing disinterestedly around at the bookshelves hiding troves of treasure with weathered spines and dog-eared pages.

“Why are we here?”

Ingrid paused at the end of a shelf, tipping a dusty tome out of its place with a finger to look at the title on the front, the lettering on the spine too faded to make out.

“Seeing as how this is a bookstore, I dare say we’re here to buy books.” She let the book drop back and turned the corner.

Felix frowned and pinched the skin between his brows with his forefinger and thumb. “I gathered that much,” he groused, “but why do you even need them?”

“Mine are all packed away in storage in Fhirdiad.” She had come to Garreg Mach with little else but clothes and her polo equipment, and Ingrid had found herself longing after her small collection of favorite books. “I need something to read during these three months.”

“Oh, here it is.” Ingrid stretched up and snagged a dark blue hardcover from above Felix’s head, just below the sign that read _Mythology_. He glanced at it and groaned.

“Really?” His eyebrow arched disbelievingly. “You have that one. You’ve read it religiously over and over since you were like five. You nearly have it memorized—”

“Stop judging me and go find your own book,” Ingrid waved him away, weighing the book in her hands and letting it fall open, curious as to which scene the previous owner might have revisited enough that it was memorized along the cracked spine.

_He beheld her fair visage upon the lake, and at that moment, doom and destiny were wrought._

She hummed softly to herself, considering. Not her personal favorite—that was later, with the battles and monsters—but it was an important climatic moment, the meeting of the warrior and maiden. She stopped herself from reading past the first line, lest she become entirely engrossed and lose track of time. Instead, she tucked the book under her arm and scrutinized the other nearby titles before carefully picking two more.

Satisfied, Ingrid made her way back to the front, where she had a lively discussion with the store owner about the different translations and adaptations of _The Sword of Kyphon_ as he rang up her purchases.

“The movie was so bad,” Ingrid insisted. “The story is about duty and friendship and camaraderie. I don’t understand why they introduced some terrible love triangle into it.”

The owner’s laugh was wheezy. “The masses love nothing more than a good romance.”

Felix appeared at her elbow, and she was convinced to leave the debate for another time only by the suggestion of brunch.

“Gods, there’s so many people,” Felix complained at the crowds as they walked down the bustling street.

“It’s only going to get worse, probably.” Ingrid considered all the possible dining options with great gravity, studying the soup and sandwich combo on one menu before looking at the pastries displayed in window of the next restaurant. “The Season officially starts tomorrow, after all.”

Across the street, Ingrid’s eyes caught a waiter walking to a table, balancing a large stack of pancakes. Mind made up, she started toward the diner, stomach grumbling.

“Ugh.” It was impossible to tell if Felix was groaning about her choice or the gaggle of perfumed ladies they had to squeeze past to make it to the door.

They were seated near a window and Felix took every opportunity to scowl outside at the passersby as if their presence and number were a personal affront to him. “How insufferable,” he grumbled. “Rich nobles everywhere.”

“You’re one of them,” Ingrid pointed out, not looking up from the menu. “Technically I am too, without the rich part.”

Felix stewed on this information, but unsurprisingly, did not allow it to change his opinion or overall demeanor much. “All this fuss, and for what?”

“For the signing of the treaty. For the first social season in decades.”

“The social season has always existed. Nobles have always had time and money to waste on entertainment.”

“But it hasn’t been international in decades, given poor relations between the three nations.” Ingrid watched as Felix sipped his coffee—black, no cream, no sugar. “People are excited about the promise of peace and prosperity with the treaty. They want to celebrate. Don’t be surprised that the rich and noble want to celebrate extravagantly.”

“I’d rather be left out of it.”

“You’re here to support your friends.” Ingrid pressed her palm flat against the wood of the table, steel entering her voice. “You’re here to support Dimitri.”

Felix’s gaze cut to hers and Ingrid held it without wavering until he finally sighed in acquiescence.

“You’re grumpier than usual,” she lightened her tone. “Did you talk to your father?”

He scoffed hard enough that a woman from the next table looked over. The waiter chose that moment to appear, depositing a giant omelette stuffed with an irresponsible amount of toppings in front of Ingrid’s ravenous eyes. He slid a small sad looking plate in front of Felix and took his leave.

“I thought you were going to get the pancakes,” Felix remarked, picking at his single bagel. The savage didn’t even slather it in cream cheese.

“Next time,” Ingrid promised, already tucking in even as the waiter came back to place a smoothie, a small bowl of fruit and two slices of toast next to her elbow. Felix waved off the offer of a coffee refill.

He watched her eat with a detached clinical interest, any wonder or disgust long since tempered through years of acquaintance. “Ready for tomorrow?”

Ingrid hummed non-committedly, engrossed in her food.

“Losing the first match on opening day would be embarrassing,” Felix pointed out needlessly. “The stands are going to be full since the Prince is playing. It’s even on mainstream news.”

He held up his phone, displaying a list of articles.

_Season to Start with a Royal Bang: Prince Dimitri Takes to the Polo Field_

_Everything You Wanted to Know About Polo and the Kingdom’s Eight Competing Teams_

_Printable Armistice Cup Bracket: Will the Blue Lions Drop to the Loser’s Bracket after Tomorrow?_

“Dimitri came up with the team name, didn’t he? A primary color and an animal, really?”

“It’s simple and memorable.” Ingrid shrugged, twirling her fork to gather a dripping string of cheese sneaking out of the omelette. “Sylvain loves the uniform, says it really complements his complexion. Anyway, are you planning to come watch?”

“I suppose I should, if only to see how you’ve been treating my horses.”

“They’re not _your_ horses,” Ingrid only barely restrained herself from pointing her fork at him. “They belong to your family, and horses hate you, besides.”

“The feeling is mutual. I expect a win, by the way, to make it worth my while.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, how about your event?”

“The fencing competition isn’t for two weeks, but I’d rather be training for it in the capital right now.” Felix sighed, long and suffering. “Instead, I’m forced to get ready for the banquet tomorrow.”

Ingrid made a sympathetic sound as she polished off her plate. “You can practice while you’re here, at least, can’t you?”

“The training hall in the monastery is adequate,” Felix admitted. “You’ll see it when you join me for a spar.”

“I’m rusty,” Ingrid warned.

“Naturally, since you’ve done nothing but play golf on a horse for the past few months.”

They were still bickering good-naturedly between each other about whether polo or fencing was the superior sport as they left the restaurant, Ingrid holding a pastry in her hands.

“You never answered me earlier,” Ingrid surveyed her croissant and debated the merits of eating it now or saving it for later. “Your father still thinks you’re joining his security firm. You didn’t talk to him yet, did you?”

“…No.” Felix slipped a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and onto his face. “I was planning to. During the ride from the station. But…”

Ingrid gave him a moment, readjusting the books tucked under one arm, but he never finished his sentence. “Sorry,” she said at last, feeling wholly inadequate with the sentiment.

“Why? It’s not your fault he doesn’t have time for his son.”

Ingrid looked at him and saw herself reflected in his shades. “Still. I’m sorry.”

He turned his head away. “Yeah, me too.”

Ingrid bit into her croissant, letting the buttery golden flakes spill between her fingers and fall to the ground, its sweetness tempered by the mood that hung between them.

* * *

They won.

The Blue Lions took the first game of the historic cup on storied Gronder Field in beautiful weather to the delight of full cheering stands.

It was a clean game and well-played all around. But with better horses and a stronger offense, the Blue Lions had pulled away towards a definitive win by the fifth chukka.

Ingrid was as exhilarated as everyone else, but after nearly half an hour of forced pictures—on their horses, off their horses, next to their horses, shaking hands with the other team, casual poses and candid shots—she was eager to finally escape.

Unfortunately for her, it was more difficult than anticipated given that reporters were all around, asking questions of the players and audience alike while Rodrigue’s security teams patrolled closely at their heels. It was all quite stifling.

_Condolences on the loss,_ a man with a marvelous toupee was saying to the captain of the other team. _With double elimination there’s still a chance though, any thoughts or new strategies for the next game?_

_This is the first polo game I’ve ever seen_ , an older lady with a floppy sunhat was saying into a microphone. _It’s all quite exciting, though the action happens so fast…_

Ingrid glimpsed Dimitri with at least four microphones pointed in his direction. At least Dedue was faithfully at his shoulder, a comforting presence. _What about the dangers of the sport, Your Highness? What does the council think of you partaking in the cup?_

“Listen,” Sylvain was saying from beside her to a reporter and a dutifully filming cameraman, “I score a lot of goals, but the truth is, I wouldn’t have the balls to go for half of those shots if I didn’t know Ingrid had my back.”

Ingrid dutifully shook the reporter’s hand, making the requisite introductions and exchanging pleasantries about the game.

“So, do you think the Blue Lions have what it takes to win?” the reporter asked.

“We have some fierce competition,” Ingrid replied honestly. “Regardless of the outcome, though, it’s a chance for our team to show our dedication and solidarity.”

“She’s being modest,” Sylvain laughed. He leaned closer and flashed the camera his most charming grin. “Between you and me, Ingrid’s our secret weapon. So yeah, I think we’ll win.”

“Polo’s a team sport,” Ingrid offered diplomatically when the microphone swung back to her. “And I’m honored to be a part of the Blue Lions.”

“Alright, we’re off to celebrate now!” Sylvain cut off any further questions with a cheerful wave.

Sylvain exulted in their victory the entire way off the field and to the monastery, barely leaving her alone long enough in the locker room to shower and change into a fresh uniform.

“Now, there’s only one way to properly celebrate a victory.” Sylvain rubbed his hands together as they stood in the middle of a lavishly decorated dining hall.

“With food,” Ingrid asserted, eyes flicking about eagerly at all the options. “Lots of delicious free food.”

“No,” he admonished, rolling his eyes with long-suffering exasperation, “with a beautiful woman. Hey, where are you going?”

“Food,” she repeated tonelessly, leaving him to his devices.

Ingrid maneuvered expertly through the hall, her carefully planned route meant to disguise how much she was shoveling into her gullet. She dropped a water glass and used plate on a passing waiter’s tray, shook hands with a passing socialite who congratulated her on the team’s win, and was off to the next table.

She was zigzagging back and forth, alternating going back for seconds (and thirds) for a delicious meat skewer and sweet bread rolls when she caught sight of Felix rolling his eyes at her from across the room where he was standing with his father and several important looking businessmen, but she ignored him easily, focused on her task. Ingrid lost so much time between those two tables that when she approached the desserts, she saw that they had been almost picked clean.

She was not pouting, because she was above such things. She not-pouted all around the table, as if circling it would answer the question of when they would come to refill it with little tart cakes and chocolate mousse torte.

“Don’t pout, Ingrid,” a voice spoke from behind her. “my heart can’t handle it.”

She whirled around. Dorothea was there, smiling at her. “Here,” her bracelets jingled merrily as she offered a small plate in her hands. “I saved you some.”

Ingrid’s mind blanked and her heart leapt inside her chest at the sight of the beautiful, blessed dessert. No other reason.

“Oh… thank you.” And for lack of anything better to say, Ingrid stuffed a rudely sized portion of torte into her mouth.

Dorothea stood there watching, a little curious tilt to her head, as Ingrid scarfed everything down in less than a minute.

She made no move to leave when Ingrid was done. That was… puzzling. Ingrid had been so sure Dorothea’s parting words from last time were offered simply out of politeness. It was inconceivable that the other girl would be seeking her out when their last parting half a decade ago had been so disastrous.

“Thank you,” Ingrid offered again, uncertain. “I was… really hungry.”

Dorothea’s laugh was gentle and tinkling. “Yes, you certainly were.”

“Were you at the game?” Ingrid floundered for possible topics to discuss.

“Oh, yes. I—”

“There you are, Dorothea.”

A well-dressed middle-aged man stepped up next to them, frowning. His face was angular, his dark eyes sharp. He was well-coifed with an expensive looking haircut and a liberal amount of pomade applied in his chestnut hair.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said to Dorothea. Ingrid took note of how Dorothea ducked away from his touch and angled her body away from him, coming closer to Ingrid’s side.

“There’s a young noble from the Alliance who’d like to meet—oh,” he finally took notice of Ingrid standing there in her polo uniform. “And who might you be?”

“This is Ingrid, one of my old friends,” Dorothea introduced stiffly.

She shook hands with him, feeling the cold metal of the large rings on his fingers. “Ingrid Galatea.”

“Lodvik von Geirrod,” he studied her critically before offering a wry smile. “That’s quite a grip you’ve got there, Ingrid.”

“Apologies. We Faerghans forget our strength sometimes.”

“I’m sure that strength serves you well on the field,” he raised an eyebrow in challenge at her. “Well-played match this morning, truly. I don’t mean any disrespect, but polo is somewhat of a dying sport, no?”

Ingrid drew her shoulders back, refusing to be daunted by how much taller he was. “The sport will never die so long as there are those who play for love of the horses and the competition.”

“Well spoken.” The disparaging look on his face suggested otherwise. “Sorry to cut the reunion short, but Dorothea, you should—”

“Actually,” Dorothea’s fingers twitched, brushing against Ingrid’s wrist, “I think it’ll have to wait. Ingrid was inviting me to—”

“—to see the gardens,” Ingrid finished, nodding definitively, committed now to selling the lie.

Lodvik’s brows pinched together as he and Dorothea stared at each other, a silent battle of wills raging. Ingrid tried to muffle her instinctive, baseless dislike of him. She didn’t even know him, had only spoken to him for mere moments, and yet—

“We’ll be going now, then.” Dorothea’s voice cut through her thoughts, and before she knew it, the other girl had gripped her forearm and nearly hauled her out the door.

* * *

Dorothea promptly released her with a noisy sigh when they turned a corner on the monastery grounds, now out of sight and earshot of the dining hall.

“Do you think he believed us?” Ingrid wondered as they set off at a languid pace. “I’ve been told countless times how awful I am at lying.”

“Honestly? I don’t really care if he did or not.” Dorothea fell into a brooding silence for several long moments.

“Is he someone important?” Ingrid asked gently.

“He’s my father.”

Ingrid was so busy staring at Dorothea’s profile in shock that she didn’t realize she had stopped walking. Dorothea paused several steps away when she noticed Ingrid was no longer at her side.

“Your father?” Ingrid spluttered. Goddess, she had been rather rude to him, but at the same time, Dorothea herself hadn’t seemed exactly warm… But Ingrid also distinctly remembered only a mother in Dorothea’s life, and only during her childhood, which raised more questions. “I don’t… understand?”

“You must be wondering what I’m doing here, how an orphan could possibly be playing at being a socialite.” She laughed, dark and self-deprecating, not turning around. “Lodvik is a minor Adrestian noble who once had a dalliance with a member of his household staff. He came into my life a few months ago, said he wanted to reconnect. It turns out that actually, well…”

She looked to the sky, blinking hard. Dorothea didn’t finish her thought and instead started another one. “My mother never told me his name… said it wasn’t important. Maybe… maybe I should have realized…”

Ingrid approached Dorothea carefully as if she were an easily spooked animal, respecting the emotion in her voice. Dorothea glanced at Ingrid for a second, eyes dry and sorrowful, before she dropped her chin and shook her head.

“I’m such an imposter,” she whispered.

“If you’re an imposter, so am I,” Ingrid admitted. Dorothea said nothing, but offered a miniscule tilt of her head that Ingrid took as a cue to continue.

“The Galatea family will most likely lose its noble standing by next year,” she stated blandly. It was the first time she’d spoken these thoughts aloud. Was it relief or shame that Ingrid felt in her chest? “We’ve lost our land holdings and our inheritance is nothing but debt now. The taxes and tithes are too much for us.”

Speaking the next part felt like regurgitating fire, but she found she couldn’t stop now. “I just found out that they’ve been waived the past few years due to His Highness’ kindness. But I can’t—I won’t—it’s wrong for me to benefit from his charity because of our friendship.” Especially with how she had badly she had failed Dimitri.

Ingrid cleared her throat abruptly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it about me.” She could feel Dorothea’s gaze boring into her temple. Ingrid wiped her palms against her pants and glanced sidelong at her. “Even if you feel like you don’t belong,” she said quietly, shyly, “I’m glad you’re here.”

The answering smile was small, like a few strands of sunlight peeking through gloomy clouds, but it warmed Ingrid regardless.

“Where exactly is here, though?” Composing herself as much as possible, Dorothea looked around at where their wanderings had taken them. “I don’t think these are the gardens?”

“No, those are actually… in the other direction,” Ingrid revealed.

“Oh well,” Dorothea laughed. “This hedge is nice enough.”

So saying, she gathered her skirt beneath her and sat on a stone bench next to the well-trimmed shrubbery. Dorothea patted the spot next to her with a welcoming smile when Ingrid didn’t immediately follow suit. Deciding that sitting was preferable to hovering awkwardly above her, Ingrid carefully settled at the end of the bench. Companionable silence stretched between them for several long moments. Dorothea finger-combed her hair absently, mind far away, while Ingrid suppressed her desire to stare at her by watching the small chirping birds flitting to and fro instead.

“We should… we should be friends again,” Dorothea said suddenly. Ingrid nearly jumped. “Imposters should look out for each other, no?”

“Oh.” Was it possible that Dorothea had forgotten—no, she was most likely ignoring it because she was kind. If they both acted like it hadn’t happened and never spoke of it again, then surely… “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot,” Ingrid said.

“Great!” Dorothea sprang to her feet. “I should probably head back to my room, I told Petra we’d get ready for the opening banquet together. You’ll be there tonight, right? I think you’d like Petra—oh…”

  
She must have read the answer in Ingrid’s expression and was immediately crestfallen.

“Yeah, fancy stuff like that isn’t really my thing,” Ingrid muttered, rubbing her neck sheepishly. “But um… we could meet tomorrow? Go for a horseback ride or something?”

“Oh…”

Now it was Dorothea’s turn to look uncomfortable. Who knew friendship would be this difficult.

“If you don’t mind teaching me… I think that would be… fine,” Dorothea finally said haltingly.

They made plans to meet the next day after lunch, around one o’clock and Ingrid bade Dorothea goodbye, telling her to have a good time at the banquet and to avoid Sylvain as much as possible.

“What am I doing,” she muttered, walking away from Dorothea’s sweet smile and wave.

* * *

In her room, Dorothea considered her nails critically. They were done in a resplendent pearl and pristine, no chipping or cracking to be seen. But perhaps she should change them to red? People always said red was her color.

Even simple decisions like this were too difficult when her mind was preoccupied with too many other buzzing thoughts. With a groan, Dorothea dropped her head onto her forearms at the vanity, toppling a tube of lipstick and upsetting a small compact such that it clicked shut, almost in indignation.

“What is being the matter?” Petra asked kindly from where she was sitting on the bed next to a garment bag. “You are seeming much less excited about this than before.”

“Oh!” Dorothea’s head shot up. Lost in her tumultuous feelings, she had nearly forgotten the other girl was there. “Is it time for me to help you braid your hair?”

“Not yet.” Petra continued her hair-brushing calmly. When Dorothea continued to watch her morosely, she reminded her gently, “You are not answering me.”

The bed sagged under their combined weights as Dorothea came next to Petra. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s so much, Petra. I don’t know where to start. And I don’t want to burden you with all my problems.”

Their friendship was only a few weeks old, but Petra had proven to be an amazingly kind friend who was loyal to a fault. Dorothea wouldn’t be able to thank Edelgard enough for introducing them before they made their way to Garreg Mach for the Season. Across the sea and in a different country entirely, Petra was inquisitive, fearless, and entirely enthralled with learning everything she could about Fódlan. In her moments of weakness, Dorothea wished fervently she could even be a little bit like her, possess some of that poise and self-confidence.

_To be expected of a real princess, I suppose_ , she mused.

“Many problems?” Petra started braiding her hair with quick fingers even as she shook her head. “How about you are just telling me one, then? You may be finding it to lighten your soul, even a little.”

“Here, come to the vanity.” Dorothea ushered Petra in front of the mirror and held another smaller one from behind so that Petra could see the back of her head and she continued her braiding, which was quickly growing more elaborate.

“I was so desperate to spend time with someone that I did something very stupid,” she finally admitted to the back of Petra’s head.

At her encouraging hum, Dorothea soldiered on. “I agreed to let her teach me horseback riding.”

“Why is this upsetting to you?”

“I’m absolutely terrified of horses.” Dropping spread-eagled backwards onto her bed as she bemoaned the fact wasn’t overly dramatic at all. Besides, Petra had finished and no longer needed the hand mirror.

“Tell me I’m stupid,” Dorothea groaned. “Better yet, tell me what to do.”

“I am not knowing such things,” Petra said apologetically, picking up her garment bag and moving towards the bathroom to change. “But nearly always, I am finding honesty is the best.”

As usual, Petra’s words made sense. The sensible thing to do would be to tell Ingrid she couldn’t make it tomorrow, that they should do something else. But how Ingrid’s eyes had lit up at the prospect of horses…

With one last groan, Dorothea pushed herself upright and finished getting ready. No use dwelling on it now.

“Oh, Petra,” Dorothea said happily as they stepped out into the early evening together, “you look wonderful.”

Petra lifted her arms and looked down at herself. “It is very unlike the traditional dress of Fódlan, but I am liking the experience nonetheless. It is all quite exciting. Of course, you are looking very nice as well, Dorothea.”

And she did. Not to sound vain, but Dorothea liked the way her shimmering dress clung to her curves and the way her updo accentuated the lines of her throat and jaw. It just… all felt somewhat of a waste now. She valiantly tried to muster excitement to match Petra’s, but she was already wishing the whole event was over.

Even in her trepidation, she wished it were tomorrow afternoon already.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a short trashy romcom styled thing. Then it took itself too seriously and spiraled out of control. Now it's too late. Also, how many crappy fathers will I write into this story? Take your guesses below.


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